


funhouse mirror

by mrmime



Category: Guidestuck, Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Non-Binary Character, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-15 14:37:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12322983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrmime/pseuds/mrmime
Summary: But nothing good ever comes out of looking at this thing any longer than it takes to glance in its direction and make sure it's where you left it, and he's been sitting here, staring at it for a while now.He'd been told in no uncertain terms that doing that is just about the least advisable thing hecouldbe doing, around this thing.





	funhouse mirror

This thing's actually kind of ugly, huh.

Dirk had left it to him, after it'd been chewed up and spat back out of the blue into their mish-moshed mayhem of a new universe. Not that he'd just up and unceremoniously dumped the thing and the responsibility of keeping an eye on it on him so much as he'd looked so outright _exhausted_ at the prospect of doing it himself. Just look at what a fantastic job he'd done in the past.

And no one else was going to step forward for any reason shorter than having their arm twisted back.

So, Cal stepped in.

"It'll be alright," he'd told Dirk, the thing swaddled limply in his arms like it was just another one of his Bros. A lost relative, maybe. Something akin to Cal's own warped relationship to Dirk, and his brother - related by name, and maybe by blood (Cal's parents were a mystery, and Liv was long gone), but not by universe.

(Nevermind how uneasy it made Cal to consider this thing related to him, in any way. It has his name, it wears his clothes, but it's not him. He promises.)

Dirk hadn't looked convinced in the slightest, but with their limited options, it'd been the lesser of two evils to just nod and let his not-relative take his place as the thing's handler. 

He's good with puppets. Better, even, than Dirk had ever been, and a helluva sight more than Dave. Duh.

It's just... well... 

It's not that cute, is it? 

Dragging his thumbs over the name boldly embroidered into its jersey, Cal feels the corners of his lips ache with the urge to dip downwards into a frown. He refuses, stubborn. Maybe out of habit, or maybe out of spite for himself, he can't be sure. But nothing good ever comes out of looking at this thing any longer than it takes to glance in its direction and make sure it's where you left it, and he's been sitting here, staring at it for a while now. 

He's been told in no uncertain terms that doing that is just about the least advisable thing he _could_ be doing, around this thing. 

The thing is, Cal knows that. He knows that when his back is turned, there's a nonzero chance that he'll find something knocked over, moved, or even broken when he turns back around. There's a chance he'll turn around and find he suddenly has company that takes the form of a doll with ratty seams and hinges rusting in the back of its mouth. (It doesn't scare him. Cal stopped being afraid of himself a long time ago, and he's not about to let some shitty facsimile change that.)

He knows that it's dangerous. Or at the very least, that it was, once.

But either it doesn't want to hurt him, or it can't. And Cal's willing to bet it's the latter.

"You're kind of wily, huh," he'd noted at it once when it'd invited itself onto his mattress in the midst of his frankly embarrassing attempts at scribbling in MS Paint. 

He hadn't actually seen it move. It never _moves_ per se, at least as long as someone's nearby to catch it in the act. But one second it'd been at the opposite end of the room, sitting pretty and having a presumed chat with Cal's Bros over empty chalices, and the next Cal could see the glint of gold and that painfully familiar royal blue out of the corner of his eyes. 

"You don't want to hang out with them?" Cal had asked it. No response. " - did you want to hang out with me? You can watch me draw."

Radio silence.

In the end, he'd wound up with the thing perched on his back with its floppy arms tangled around his shoulders while he wrestled with his computer's janky trackpad. It wouldn't move while it was that up-close and personal, and frankly, as much as it smelled like mothballs and all the candy in the world boiled down into tar, Cal had willingly subjected himself to worse experiences in the past. 

But he really, really hates looking at it. Not because it's dangerous, and not because it smells like someone died at a Halloween party.

But because looking at it is like a kick in the head, forcing down his throat the knowledge that while it might not _be_ him, for a lot of the people he's met since the game ended, this thing was their first introduction to _his_ name. His clothes, his eyes, even his obnoxious squawk of a laugh. 

Cal hates it for that. 

Hates it for all the pain it's caused, the misery it's spread over the universes like a thick, oppressive quilt. Hates it for all the first impressions he'll never get to make. Hates it for staining his relationship to the only siblings he's ever come close to having (Dirk, and Dave) before he ever had the chance to meet them, himself.

But he can't bring himself to do a thing about it. The meanest thing he can think to do, is what he's already doing. Gripping the doll by its plush sides and glowering down into those glass eyes, challenging it. That stupid party trick it'd used to infect Dave's brother, and Gamzee - it won't work on him. Of course it won't work! He's _you_ , dingus!

So far, (and it's been some time now) it's never once been able to prove Cal wrong. 

"I wish you talked," he tells it, finally peeling himself off the floor (and jeez, how long has he been sitting around having a staring contest with this thing?) of his room to go tuck the puppet back into the corner he usually sets it in. It's at the opposite end of the room to where he lets Big Bro and Lil Bro hunker down. The real Dave, and his real brother - not Dirk, but the other one - had had what Cal can only assumes was enough of this thing loitering unwelcome in their lives. Their puppet facsimiles don't deserve the same.

(It's like he thinks he can make it up to them, by protecting the only iterations of them he knew for the first seventeen years of his life.)

"Do you?"

Cal wraps his arms around his himself, eyes on the doll in front of him now that he's sat it down and arranged all its limbs neatly. His brows pull downwards, furrowing, and there's tension crawling up his back that almost tempts him to turn around, check the doorway, maybe someone's there. But he knows there isn't. It's the doll. It's just Lil' Cal and its crappy parlor tricks. 

"Stop it," he grouses, not half-dumb enough to think it actually would. "I don't know how stupid you think I am, but maybe that's my fault. Maybe you think I'll play your shitty games just because I'm nice to you. Is that what you think? That I'm an invalid, because I'm nice?"

It took him years to grow into and mean his own kindness. To shake off the stigma of being some creepy ditz. 

A step forward doesn't make the doll shrink back, or move at all. If its eyes roll up in their sockets to stare at its current owner, Cal's too used to it boggling at him to notice. He digs a finger into its chest, which gives with a weak wheeze of musty air.

"If I'm stupid, or whatever, fine. I don't care! I don't." (- Not for the first time, Cal wonders who he's trying to assure. The itch at the base of his skull reminds him that it's not himself.

It's the closest he thinks he's ever come to hearing the words this thing's been drowning him in.

It can talk. It's been talking this whole time.)

" - But even if I am the dumbest person on this planet, _you're_ stuck with me. And it's never going to be the other way around, ever again."

_never, ever? you want to spend an eternity arguing with something that isn't even alive?_

Exasperated, Cal drags both hands through his already hazardous mop of hair with a strangled noise more suited for a frothing chihuahua than an eighteen-year-old human being. "No, you dippy!" he squawks, a flush of frustration spreading across the tops of his cheeks. "I'm not a self-pitying masochist, like Dirk is! I want nothing to do with you!"

_aren't we friends?_

" _No_ ," It's the sharpest word he knows, and it cuts away the fog hanging around his head. His hands drop to limply hug himself again. "I'm nice to you because _I'm_ nice, and I don't get anything out of treating you like a burning dumpster fire. It wouldn't make me feel better, and it sure as hell wouldn't fix anything. Being nice is just easier. But that doesn't mean we're friends."

That wobbly frown of his finally forms a scowl, a sore thumb on his normally cheery face with the help of his lipstick ( - something he'd been happy to note as a difference between himself and the doll. It's painted red, and he prefers black).

"But. I'm going to keep being nice to you," Cal mutters with all the finality of death, after waiting for the almost-audible hissing to wrap around his brain, sink its fangs in, plant a few more words. It doesn't. "I'm going to keep letting you sit with my Bros, and I'm going to keep fixing your duds, and I'm going to keep talking to you. Because you can't do anything about it, can you?"

The thing's eyes aren't even on him anymore. Just a thousand-yard stare.

Cal huffs. "I thought so."

Point zero three seconds later, he almost goes into cardiac arrest when his phone starts buzzing a foot away, clattering noisily on his desk. Before the doll perched next to it can muster to nerve to swat it onto the floor while Cal's looking right at it, he grabs his phone, shoving it against his ear with the grace of an ape with low blood sugar. 

It's Bec. 

Somehow, even over the phone he picks up on Cal's jittering nerves, remarking in the surly way he does that it's no wonder he's getting manic, spending all day holed up in his room. Cal know's he's _allowed_ to come hang with the rest of them, right? He's their friend. Those Lost Souls - er. His Bros, they'll be fine without him. And he should - he should really stop locking himself away like he does. When Cal ventures to ask if Bec's worried about him, he can't help the flustered titter that scrambles its way up his throat at Bec's snarling reply.

_Of course I'm worried, idiot! If you had half a brain in your nut, you wouldn't have to ask me dumb questions like that. Quit fucking around and come hang out with us!_

He's right. Cal tells him as such as he twists a lock of hair around his finger, and for a second, Bec's reduced to a stammering silence. 

They exchange a few more words and then Cal's shoving his phone in his bag, along with a few other stray not-necessarily-essential items. Mostly his lipstick. He would've liked to cram some snacks in there or something, but he doesn't keep food in his room. Maybe Bec has some? He gets kind of territorial about food, but they're dating! He's obligated to share, so Cal's banking on that.

Stuffing a hat over his hair, Cal pauses at the door, hand hovering over the knob. He considers leaving without a word.

"Be good. I'll be back soon, okay?"

When he glances back, it's looking at him. Good. It heard him, then.

He leaves, and locks the door behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> my specialty is writing things that appeal to literally no one except me and you can't stop me


End file.
